"Nicolas!" the countess protested. "The drug was necessary, you understand. Unfortunate, but necessary."
"Actually, I don't understand. Suppose you explain it to me?"
"I will, I promise you. But first, why don't you sit down? There on the sofa."
The muzzle of the gun swung left, found a bead on Mackenzie's chest, stayed steady until Nick complied.
"You, too, Ms. Blair. No, at the other end of the sofa. I wouldn't want Nick to do anything foolish, like try to throw himself in the line of fire to protect you should matters, well, get out of hand."
Icy fingers danced down Mackenzie's spine. The countess had scripted out this scene well in advance, orchestrated every move. The woman knew damned well Nick might take chances with his own life but wouldn't risk hers.
Gripping the gold money clip in a clammy fist, Mackenzie sank into the creamy leather at one end of the circular sofa. She could only pray Dianthe's every word was being beamed over NASA's new, robust microelectro-mechanical system for interplanetary communications. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she eyed the buttons in the console at the end of the couch. It never hurt to have a backup system.
The countess read her mind. "Those buttons operate the onboard intercom, but no one will hear if you should try to call for help. As I explained to the crew, Monsieur Jensen had expressed a desire to take his chere ami on a moonlight cruise after cocktails. A very private moonlight cruise. They were quite pleased to be given the night off."
Thus eliminating any pesky witnesses. Mackenzie had to admire the woman's thoroughness, even as she curled her fingers into claws and wished for ten seconds, just ten, free of the damned cuffs. She got her wish, but not exactly in the way she'd hoped for.
"Alexander, my sweet, get the ropes."
The younger man crossed the salon and snagged two skeins of thin, woven hemp. They were neatly looped and knotted, handy for securing launches to the dock, Mackenzie guessed. Not to mention securing potentially troublesome guests.
"Nick first," the countess instructed. "Be careful. It would be most unfortunate if he gets you in a stranglehold and I had to shoot through you to..."
"I know what to do, Dianthe." Keeping the sofa between him and Nick, the muscular youth slipped the knots and shook out a length of rope. "Arms behind you."
Nick didn't move. His face expressionless, he assessed the woman standing across the salon.
The small, ringed hand holding the pistol whitened at the knuckles. She kept the muzzle aimed squarely at Mackenzie's heart and answered his unspoken question.
"I'm afraid I have no choice, darling. It's my neck or yours. Yours and Ms. Blair's."
She'd pull the trigger. Nick didn't doubt that for a second. He'd have to buy some time, create a distraction, get Mackenzie out of the line of fire before he made his move. With casual nonchalance, he shot his cuffs to straighten the sleeves of his blazer and brought his wrists behind his back.
It was a long shot, but the jacket's sleeves might—just might—keep pretty boy from noticing the almost imperceptible bulge strapped to Nick's forearm.
Danton looped the rope several times, made a knot and gave it a vicious yank. Every nerve in Nick's body jumped to attention when the man's knuckles brushed cloth, but his face showed only cool contempt.
"Now Ms. Blair, my pet. We can't have her found in chains, can we?"
A dead weight formed in Nick's stomach. He didn't have to be told why Dianthe wanted to trade steel for hemp. Rope would burn and, with luck, leave no evidence that a victim had been restrained. Chain wouldn't.
So she was planning another accident. An electrical short, maybe, with a resulting fire. Or a broken fuel line, spewing gas. The fire would have to burn hot and fast to consume the Sea Nymph before the harbormaster saw the smoke and sent out the tugs. His mind racing, Nick worked the options while Danton exchanged Mackenzie's cuffs for rope.
Flashing him a look of utter contempt, she settled back on the sofa and turned to Nick. "Did I tell you I did some shopping this morning?"
Lord, she was cool! If Nick hadn't already fallen and fallen hard for OMEGA's brilliant, stubborn, incredibly sexy communications chief, he would have tumbled into love with her at that moment. His eyes glinting with admiration, he followed her lead.
"You mentioned you were going to hit the rue de France."
"I happened onto a very unique shop." Her glance drifted to the countess. "One that specializes in beaded evening bags."
Beaming in approval, Dianthe relaxed her tight-fisted grip on the pistol. "So you traced the purse Nick stole from me all those years ago! How very clever of you."
"It was, wasn't it? I still haven't figured out what was in the bag, though."
"Nor has anyone else, thank heavens." She paused, teasing her audience before deigning to share her knowledge. "It was one of those old-fashioned disks—floppies, I believe they were called back then. It fit perfectly inside the lining of my purse."
"A computer disk," Nick murmured.
Damn! He couldn't believe he'd missed a floppy disk. He must have been in a hurry to get the stolen purse to Gireaux. Or been so satisfied with the wallet and other trinkets inside the bag he'd let himself get careless.
"What was on this disk?" he asked with more than idle curiosity.
"I had no idea at the time, but the gentleman who left his briefcase so temptingly open while we amused ourselves was quite high-ranking and privy to all sorts of secrets. I rather hoped he'd pay a good sum to get the disk back. Through an anonymous third party, of course."
"Of course."
Nick had long suspected the countess of supplementing her income with a little discreet blackmail. Alexander had evidently suspected his mistress of the same felonious inclinations. "Who was this high-ranking gentleman?" he asked casually. "One who could afford to satisfy even your extravagant appetites, I would assume."
"Alexander!" With a little tch-tch, his mistress shook her dark curls. "Surely you've spent enough time with me by now to know I would never bore you by going on about my past loves."
In other words, Nick thought grimly, she had no intention of trusting Danton or anyone else with her secrets.
"How could I have known some clever little street urchin would steal my bag the very next morning?'' she continued on a note of amused chagrin."Do you remember that morning, Nicolas?"
"Should I?"
The blase response implied there was nothing worth remembering about that particular day, Countess d'Ariancourt included. Dianthe didn't miss the barb. A hint of color rose in her cheeks, but the smile stayed on her lips.
"I had just walked out of the Ritz-Carlton, in Cannes, and was waiting for the valet to deliver my car. You bumped into me, apologized charmingly and sauntered off. After a night of the most delicious decadence, my wits weren't quite as sharp as they should have been. I didn't realize you'd relieved me of my purse until I went to tip the valet."
"How inconvenient for you."
‘‘Yes, it was, you wretch. I spent a considerable sum trying to track you. As did my high-ranking gentleman friend, who couldn't understand at first just how you'd obtained his disk. I fed him some tale of hearing noises during the night, I think. He became convinced a young, nimble cat burglar had slipped into our room."
Her show of amusement faded, and chagrin gave way to real regret.
"At the time, I was more annoyed over losing my Marjorie Pelletier than a potential source of income. After a while, I put both out of my mind."
"Who or what brought them back?"
"Your old associate, Jacques Gireaux." Her nose wrinkled in distaste. "Such a rude, unpleasant individual. I can't understand why you did business with him for so long."
"Rogues come in all sizes and personalities, Dianthe."
No implied insult this time. It was right there, out in the open. The countess pursed her lips, but let the comment pass.
"I take it Gireaux found the disk?" Nick asked.
&nbs
p; "He did. He sat on it for years, though, before he sold it on the black market. Then, as you Americans are so fond of saying... You do consider yourself American now, don't you, Nicolas?"
"I do."
"Well, as you would say, all hell broke loose. Perhaps you read about the unfortunate explosions that destroyed several Saudi oil refineries some months back?"
The tendons in the back of Nick's legs went as tight as steel cables. Carefully, he avoided looking in Mackenzie's direction.
"I've read about them."
"Evidently, the floppy disk I stole—and you in turn stole from me, you naughty boy—contained the complete engineering specifications for those refineries. As I but recently learned, the plans were drawn up by the Soviets, who hoped to capitalize on the wave of anti-American sentiment sweeping the Middle East after the Iranian embassy takeover. They not only provided the plans for the refineries, they sent a whole cadre of engineers to Saudi Arabia to help build them."
So that was the Russian involvement Ace's last message hinted at! The Russians hadn't had a hand in blowing up the refineries. They'd built the damned things.
"I think I've got the picture," Nick said with a sardonic smile. "Gireaux heard the Saudis put a million-dollar bounty on the head of the person or persons who'd provided the detailed information about the refineries' inner workings. He figured the Saudis would eventually trace the plans back to him. And through him, to Countess d'Ariancourt."
"Exactement. Gireaux intended to disappear, but first he contacted me. For some reason, he thought I'd pay him dearly not to divulge how the plans had come into his possession."
"Instead, you had him tortured and shot."
"It's a million-dollar bounty, Nicolas. A million dollars! Someone was sure to try to claim it. I had no choice but to destroy any and all links between me and the disk."
If the situation weren't so damned tense, Nick would have laughed at the irony. He'd sent one of OMEGA's best agents into the field, had kept Ace sweating it out for months trying to dig up a lead as to who'd engineered those devastating explosions. He still didn't know who'd actually set the charges, but he now knew the source of their technical expertise.
"I'm told Gireaux held out for some hours," the countess continued with a little moue of distaste, ''but he finally revealed the name of the pickpocket who'd brought him the bag. Then, of course, I had to find the urchin. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that the thief was none other than my darling, darling Nick."
A mingled curiosity and greed colored her voice.
"Just how much have you stolen over the years? That emerald necklace alone must have been worth a million francs."
Nick didn't bother to tell her that his thieving days had ended decades ago. Nor did he deny responsibility for the stolen emeralds. He didn't owe this woman a damned thing, much less an explanation.
"I was tempted," she continued, "sorely tempted, to use my newfound knowledge to financial advantage. Unfortunately, I couldn't take the risk with that bounty hanging over my head."
She heaved a sigh of regret, but the melodramatics didn't fool anyone. Dianthe was driven by only one consideration...saving her own skin.
‘‘After that bungled affair in Washington, I fully expected you to turn up in Nice. I didn't, however, expect you to survive the plunge down the cliff. Now, as much as it pains me, you and Ms. Blair must experience another tragic accident. Is the launch ready, Alexander?"
"It's been ready for the past half hour. I'm merely waiting for you to finish your recital before I douse the cabin with fuel."
"Didn't I tell you?" The older woman smirked at Mackenzie. She actually smirked! "He's always so thoughtful. And so very, very thorough."
Dianthe's gaze followed him to the can stashed in a comer of the salon. She showed nothing but calm determination as he walked backward, splashing clear, colorless liquid from the red-painted can.
Mackenzie's nostrils flared at the acrid stench. Her throat tight, she pressed her thumb frantically against the back of the money clip. She had no idea at this point whether she'd just opened or closed a channel, but she had to keep trying.
"You'd better think what you're doing here, you overdressed, over-the-hill pervert. It's murder. In the first degree. With malice aforethought."
"Please, Ms. Blair. Let's not end matters on an exchange of insults. It's so very declasse."
"Up yours, Countess."
With another sigh, the woman moved to the sliding glass door. ‘‘Do be careful not to splash any of that on yourself, Alexander. We shouldn't want to explain traces of gasoline on your clothing."
"Wait in the launch, Dianthe. I'll finish up here."
She cocked her head. "Will you, my pet? How generous of you. Particularly after you refused to doctor the wine I'd selected to send out to Nick's driver. I had to do it myself, once you'd left the room."
The gentle rebuke froze Alexander in his tracks.
Mackenzie had never believed in the old cliché about hair standing straight up, but every follicle on her body sent out an urgent S.O.S. Once again she sensed dark undercurrents, a dangerous tension between the countess and her lover. There was something going on between these two she didn't understand, something reflected in Alexander's face as he slowly turned to face his mistress.
Her skin crawling, Mackenzie shot a look at Nick. His shoulders were bunched and straining under the navy blazer, his expression one of grim determination as he stared at the gun in the countess's hand, now aimed at the bright red gasoline can her lover held.
"There's less than half a liter left in the can," Alexander said slowly, distinctly. "A bullet might cause it to explode, but the explosion wouldn't destroy the whole boat, Dianthe."
"Not the boat, perhaps. Just my last links to those damnable plans."
"Including me, I assume."
"Including you. Au revoir, mon cher."
With a last, desperate twist of his wrist, Nick sliced through skin and hemp. Lunging across the sofa, he knocked Mackenzie to the floor at the same instant the countess fired.
His dive must have distracted her and thrown off her aim. Either that, or she was a hell of a bad shot. The first bullet missed the gasoline can and hit Alexander, spinning him around. The second shattered the wall-size screen of the entertainment center.
Live sparks jumped from the electronic boxes behind the screen and accomplished what the first bullet had failed to do. With a loud whoosh, the gas fumes filling the cabin ignited. The flames leaped to the ceiling, arced down to the floor. Like a hissing sea serpent, they raced along the trail of spilled fuel.
Over the roar of the fire, Nick heard the glass door slam back on its runners. Dianthe was gone, rushing down to the launch no doubt, but she was the last of his concerns at the moment. Heat searing his skin, he rolled Mackenzie onto her stomach and sliced through the ropes around her wrists.
"Make for the deck," he shouted as he struggled out of his blazer and threw it over her head. "I'll bring Danton."
She didn't need a second urging. Clutching the blazer with one hand, she raced for the glass doors. Her other hand frantically worked the gold money clip.
"We're on fire! Control, do you copy? The boat's on fire."
Hooking a fist in the collar of the man lying in a pool of blood, Nick dragged him to the door. The flames followed them out onto the deck, hissing and spitting and feasting on the layers of varnish that protected the polished teak. Fire licked at Nick's heels as he propped Danton against the rail, hooked an arm under his knees, and heaved.
The wounded man hit with a splash. Nick and Mackenzie dived in after him.
Chapter 14
Mackenzie surfaced to a maelstrom of noise and confusion. Fire crackled and hissed from the burning yacht. An outboard motor gunned in the distance. Another engine—larger, louder—roared toward them from the shore.
Spraying water in a high arc, Mackenzie flung her wet hair out of her face and searc
hed the sea around her. A head topped by a tawny pelt broke the surface scant yards away. A second later, another bobbed up beside the first.
"Nick!"
With sharp scissors kicks, Mackenzie cut through the water. Her heart thumped at scorch marks on the shoulders and collar of Nick's shirt.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah."
They had to shout to be heard over the approaching boat. No, not boat, Mackenzie saw from the corner of one eye. It was a hydrofoil, one of those passenger ferries that traveled between the Mediterranean islands, skimming inches above the water on twin pontoons.
"What about Danton?"
Not that Mackenzie particularly cared about the man floating facedown in the water. She didn't have a real soft spot in her heart for guys who splashed gasoline around with every intention of making a human shish kebab out of her.
Nor did Nick. Rolling the injured man over with less than gentle hands, he hooked an elbow around his throat to keep him afloat. Blinking the water from his eyes, he speared a hard glance over Mackenzie's shoulder. She twisted around, squinted through the glare of sunlight on the sea, and picked out the trail of spray thrown up by a white launch as it sped toward a rocky promontory.
Dammit! That had to be the countess. She'd certainly made tracks.
Her jaw tight, Mackenzie paddled one-handed and fingered the silver earring still dangling from her left lobe. She'd lost the gold money clip when she cannonballed into the sea, but the transmitter embedded in her earring might still work...assuming the folks manning the control center could have heard her over the thunderous roar of the hydrofoil, that is.
Giving up any attempt at communications for the time being, Mackenzie scowled at the launch. It was now only a tiny speck, visible for just a second or two more before it rounded the jutting finger of rock and disappeared.
"You can run," she muttered under her breath, "but you can't hide. Not for long, anyway."
Nick reclaimed her attention with a terse shout. "Start swimming! The ship could blow at any moment."
A quick glance at the burning boat, was more than enough to get Mackenzie moving. Fed by the spilled gasoline, highly flammable deck varnish and God knew what else, the flames now consumed the Sea Nymph's entire upper deck. Mackenzie had no idea where the yacht's fuel tanks were located or how long it would take the fire to reach them. She wasn't about to stick around to find out.
To Love a Thief Page 13
